Chapter 6 Thorne
Thorne
Snow falls quietly over Devil’s Peak, turning everything white and still.
Everything except Aspen—who currently stands on my goddamn coffee table stringing orange tinsel across the antlers mounted above my fireplace like she’s decorating for a satanic cheer competition.
“Take that crap down,” I growl from the doorway.
She doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t even pretend to care that I’m a six-foot-four threat still holding an axe and dusted in sawdust and cold rage.
She just keeps humming some off-key Halloween tune, hips swaying in those short black shorts that have no business being worn in late October.
The woman is infuriating.
The woman is trouble.
The woman is mine—and that last thought hits me so hard I have to lock my jaw to hide it.
Because she’s not mine.
And that’s a problem.
I stomp snow off my boots and set the axe by the door. “Aspen.”
“Yes, Mountain Man?” she says sweetly—fake sweet, wicked sweet—still not looking at me.
“I told you: no decorations unless they’re fire-safe and approved by me.”
“Well lucky for you,” she says, stretching higher to tape a bat garland to the wall, “I don’t do approval.”
“I mean it.”
“I bet you do.”
I walk toward her, slow and lethal. “I’m not joking, Aspen.”
She glances over her shoulder then, red lipstick bright, eyes lit like a match. “You never are. That’s why it’s so fun to ruin your day.”
I step closer. “You think this is a game?”
“I think my entire existence is a blessing on your cold, dead soul, and one day you’ll thank me.”
“Unlikely.”
“Possible,” she sing-songs.
I exhale, long and hard, trying to keep my cool. “Get down.”
“From the table or emotionally?”
“Both.”
She grins.
Hell. That smile.
It does something ugly in my chest.
I reach up—close enough to smell the vanilla on her neck—and wrap a hand around her waist. Her breath locks. Good. She needs reminding who’s in charge here. I lift her off the table like she weighs nothing and set her down on the rug, slow, deliberate.
She stares up at me. No fear. Just defiance.
“You’re bossy,” she says.
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re chaos.”
We stand inches apart, heat crackling between us. Same damn cycle every time: she provokes, I warn, she ignores, I get close, and suddenly the only thing I can think about is how good she’d taste if I kissed her quiet.
She’s poison.
I’m already addicted.
“You done?” I ask, nodding at the ribbons, plastic skull candles, and glitter cobwebs chaos-spread across my lodge.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Absolutely not. I’m only halfway done. I still have the haunted village to set up by the staircase, pumpkin lights for the hallway, and a fog machine that’s going to bring this dead space to life.”
I look around slowly. “This place doesn’t need life.”
“This place needs therapy.”
“It’s a lodge.”
“It’s a cry for help, Thorne.”
I grit my teeth. “No fog machine.”
“Yes fog machine.”
“No.”
“Watch me.”
She turns to go, and I step forward, catching her wrist—not tight, just enough to stop her. Her pulse kicks under my thumb.
“Why do you keep pushing?” I ask quietly.
She twists to look back at me. “Why do you keep pretending you don’t like it?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth—fast, unintentional—but I see it.
She wants me.
I want her harder.
Too bad I can’t touch her. Because if I do, if I get even one taste, I won’t stop.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
I let go first. I always do. It feels like yanking out one of my own ribs, but I do it.
She walks away.
And I watch her go.
Hours pass.
I chop wood until my shoulders burn and my head clears, but it doesn’t help. She stays lodged too deep beneath my ribs now, stubborn as a splinter.
When I finally head inside again, the scent hits me first.
Pumpkin spice and black licorice.
And her.
She’s kneeling by the hearth, setting ceramic pumpkins along the mantle. She doesn’t hear me at first—she’s humming again. Soft this time. Almost sad.
I pause.
She thinks I left for the night, that she’s alone. And without the verbal sparring, the deflection, the glitter armor—she looks different.
She looks… young.
Breakable.
That thought shouldn’t gut me the way it does.
I lean against the doorway and watch.
She lifts a velvet pumpkin and runs her finger over it like it’s something precious. Her shoulders curve inward. Something in her expression flickers—gone too fast to read.
But it leaves a bruise in the air.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I thought you were here for a contest.”
She jumps, spinning toward me. “I—what?”
I nod to the pumpkins. “Looks like more than winning a prize.”
Her throat works. She looks down, then back up. “Maybe I like making things beautiful.”
I fold my arms. “This is a historic fishing lodge. It didn’t need your help.”
She holds my gaze. “Everything needs help sometimes.”
“No,” I say. “Some things survive on their own.”
“And some things don’t survive at all unless someone gives a shit.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Quiet hangs heavy.
The fire pops. Wind moans against the roof. Something raw moves through her expression—and before she can bury it, I see it.
Pain.
Old. Deep. Bone-level.
I don’t ask. I shouldn’t. But I do.
“What happened to you, Aspen?”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she places the pumpkin on the mantle and breathes out.
“My parents died on Halloween.”
The words steal the breath from my chest.
She stares at the fire when she continues. “I was twelve. Drunk driver. On their way home from my uncle’s costume party.” She laughs, brittle. “Imagine that. Some people can’t look at Christmas without crying. For me? It’s pumpkins and candy corn.”
I don’t move. I don’t interrupt. I don’t fucking breathe. Because if I do, I might cross the room and drag her into my arms before she’s ready.
She goes on. “I moved in with my aunt after that. She made me throw out my costumes. Said it was unhealthy to keep clinging to childish things.” Her eyes shine but she doesn’t cry.
“So I did what I had to. I survived. I grew up. I learned how to smile when I didn’t want to.
And every October… I decorated alone. Big.
Loud. Stupid. Glittery. Weird. Because it was the only time I ever felt—” Her voice cracks again.
“—anything good. Like they were still with me.”
Fuck.
I hate this. I fucking hate it. The way her voice shakes. The way she finally drops the armor. The way I want nothing more than to walk over there and fix it—even though I don’t know how.
I step closer before I can stop myself. “You don’t have to tell me more.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “But I wanted to.”
I don’t touch her.
I want to.
God, I want to.
But whatever this is, whatever is happening in this room, it feels sacred. If I grab her now, if I drag her in too hard, I’ll wreck it. And some stupid animal part of me wants—needs—to protect this moment, like if I do, I protect her.
So I just stand there.
Closer.
Still not close enough.
She wipes her cheek, even though no tears fall. “You’re going to say it was a long time ago. That I should move on.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
She looks up, surprised.
“You don’t have to move on,” I tell her. “You just have to live.”
She blinks. “That was almost profound.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I mutter.
Her smile is small. But it’s real.
She squeezes a pumpkin plush in her hands. “You still hate Halloween?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
I shrug. “I don’t hate it. I just don’t get it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s loud. Messy. Pointless.”
She smirks faintly. “So am I.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Was that an insult?”
“No.”
And we stand there—close, warm, suspended in something neither of us can run from now.
Later—when the candles burn low and fatigue pulls at her shoulders—I walk her to my room. “I’ve got some things to do before I hit the hay. I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs tonight to give you some privacy—”
“No!” She’s interjects. “I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t mind sharing a bed with you. Warmer that way, it’s about as cozy as an igloo in this place.”
I pause, letting her words linger between us. “Okay…I’ll be up a little later then.”
She hesitates in the doorway. “Okay. Thanks. Goodnight, Mountain Man.”
“Night, witch.”
She goes inside. Closes the door.
But the silence afterward feels wrong.
I go to the kitchen. Open a drawer. Close it again.
It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for. One tiny bag tucked behind emergency batteries and old receipts.
One single, stupid bag of candy corn I used to bribe kids who made it to the lodge on Halloween night. I kept it because I hate waste.
Now I’m glad I did.
I stand outside the bedroom door way too long listening to her hum softly in the shower before I finally do it—set the candy corn gently on her pillow.
A silent offering.
Her holiday. Her comfort thing.
No questions. No pity.
Just—I see you.
Then I go back downstairs before I do something irreversible.
I lay on the couch but I don’t sleep.
I keep waiting to hear her door creak open. Her soft footsteps in the hallway. Her voice.
A quiet “thank you.”
It never comes.
But that’s okay.
She doesn’t owe me anything.
I’m the one who owes her now.
Because somewhere along the way, between the glitter and the wreckage of us, I made a decision.
Aspen Taylor isn’t a guest anymore.
She isn’t a problem or a complication.
She sure as hell isn’t leaving.
She is mine.
Not officially.
Not out loud.
Not yet.
But I know it in my bones, and one day soon she will, too.
So help me—I’ll make sure she never feels alone again.
Not on Halloween.
Not on any day.
Not ever.
And God help anything that tries to take her joy again.